


The Good Son

by phantisma



Series: Very Dark Wincest Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Mind Games, Ownership, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-24
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is called back to Stanford to investigate some strange disappearances, and before he could even meet up with the old friend who asked for him, Sam disappears himself, taken prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The argument was the same, it was always the same. Sam stalked away from the hotel room, his face hot with anger as he replayed it in his head. His father never said the words, but the message was always clear. _Why can’t you be more like Dean?_

Sam kicked at the gravel of the hotel parking lot and bit his lip. After everything, all the hunting, all the searching and following cryptic clues, he was with them less than 2 hours before it started. Sam supposed that it didn’t help that they were here, the place of Sam’s worst betrayal of their father’s aspirations for his sons. It didn’t take him long to reach the campus that had been his home for those few years he’d been free.

His long legs ate the shaded streets as he recalled John Winchester’s one trip to the campus. He hadn’t said it then either. And tonight Dean hadn’t spoken, and maybe that was really what was eating at Sam. His brother hadn’t disagreed, hadn’t defended him.

Not that he should expect it, after all, Dean was the good son. He was the talented thief, the con man, better with a gun, better with a punch, and way better at taking orders without question. That was something Sam had never gotten the hang of.

Sam had only come back here because an old friend had emailed him about some strange happenings on campus. Two juniors had disappeared inside three months. The police had few leads. Sam didn’t really expect it to be anything supernatural, but had agreed to come look around, just because it was Davis asking him to, and Davis was nervous. Davis was the coolest head he knew at Stanford. Sam never expected Dean to come with him, let alone that their father would show up.

He was chasing something else of course, and had ordered Sam off the disappearances within minutes of announcing his presence. That had kick-started the argument. This time Sam didn’t give in though, didn’t cave to the pressure of trying to please him, because arguing hurt less than disappointment.

He had stormed out, after only a few rounds and now found himself wishing he had at least grabbed his jacket. The campus was chill, blanketed in a light fog. He had scheduled a meeting with Davis that he was early for, but he figured he could use the time to clear his head anyway.

Sam scuffed his feet in frustration as he walked, stuffing his large hands into his jeans and hunching his shoulders over. He was still a ways from the library building where he had spent countless hours as a student, where Davis had said he’d meet him. He moved more briskly, turning his thoughts away from his father and to the little information he had been able to glean from the local papers.

Both students had come from poor families, disadvantaged backgrounds. Both were men, in their junior years, one was pre-med, the other business. They had no classes in common, lived in different off campus housing and both were last seen either out leaving the library for their homes on a night rather like this one, fogged in and hazy.

No evidence of foul play had been found, and campus security was dealing with them as though they were voluntary departures. It happened often enough. The stress of college life wasn’t for everybody.

Sam reached the stairs of the library and looked around him. It was only 8, but the fog made it seem later, muffling the distant sounds of people moving between buildings and deepening the shadows around him. It was a familiar place, a reminder of the most normal time in his life. He heard steps and turned, expecting Davis.

The fist that slammed into his face took him by surprise and he staggered backward, turning away from his assailant without seeing him, struggling as an arm circled around his throat and slowly cut off his air.

Sam pulled at the arm, but he was off balance, his feet trying to push him upright while the arm yanked him backward. The man was shorter than Sam, but used his surprise against him easily. He felt the darkness coming long before he realized he couldn’t fight it.

 

Dean shook his head at his father as Sam stormed out, waiting until he was gone before turning to him. “Do you have to piss him off every single time we see you?”

“He’s got to learn, Dean.”

“Yeah, well…he’s smarter than you give him credit for.”

There was angry silence between them before Dean reached for his coat. “This friend of his is important to him. I’ll see if I can catch up to him. He doesn’t think this thing is supernatural in nature. He just wants to hear what Davis has to say, so he can count it out. We’ll be back in an hour.”

Dean slipped his coat on and opened the door. John shook his head and grabbed his own coat. “I’ll come with you. My demon can wait until morning.”

Dean grinned and held the door. Together they walked toward campus. Sam had told Dean where he was supposed to meet this friend, and while Dean didn’t know the campus nearly as well as Sam, he had spent more hours there than Sam would ever know.

As they neared the library, Dean spotted a fidgety man at the base of the stairs and stopped his father with a hand on his arm. “Davis, I presume?” Dean said, looking around them. “So where’s Sam?”

John frowned. “I don’t see him.”

“Let’s see what Mr. Stanford has to say.” Dean moved forward confidently, sticking out his hand. “Davis? I’m Dean Winchester, Sam’s brother.”

Davis was slightly older than Dean, dressed in a suit and tie and very obviously uncomfortable. He took the offered hand hesitantly, his eyes moving over the fog. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean scrunched his shoulders. “I was hoping you could tell me. When we saw him last he was on his way here to meet you.”

“I was a little late, my class went long. I haven’t seen him.”

Dean beckoned his father closer. “Well, maybe he just got distracted with nostalgia and he’ll be along. Why don’t you fill us in while we wait? This is my father, John.”

“Okay, but let’s get inside. I don’t like the fog.”

Dean gestured for Davis to lead the way and shot his father a concerned look before he followed. This wasn’t like Sam, even as mad as he had been when he’d stormed out, and that made Dean very uneasy.

 

 

Burning…his lungs were burning, his throat was fire…music was pulsing at a volume that was nearly painful, surrounding him…beating at him like a physical fist pounding on his back. He shook his head, then stopped suddenly as sensation rushed in and he recognized the danger.

Headphones, tight against his head…a gag, stuffed into his mouth, pulled tight, cutting the corners of his mouth. Blinded, something tied over his eyes…but that wasn’t all. There was a hood tied around his neck, covering his entire head, gag, blindfold and headphones.

He was marooned in the darkness with no access to his surroundings. His knees ached, and he slowly realized he was kneeling on a hard surface. His body was held upright by his bound arms, pulled up over his head. His shoulders strained at the weight of his body, but the pain wasn’t unbearable…yet.

He was conscious of his breathing, harsh against the material in his mouth, dragging air through his bruised throat and into lungs still burning from their brief deprivation of air. The music was unfamiliar, the beat insistent, the words incoherent, at least to his starting to panic mind.

A hand touched him and he started, flinching away and finding the surface he knelt on was small. Too much movement and he would fall. The hand was on his back, and he realized his back was bare. The hand was cold, settling between his shoulder blades, sitting there, as if to prove that it could, and that Sam could do nothing to stop it.

Then it was gone and he was once more alone in the dark. The next touch was less gentle. It felt like leather, sliding over his back roughly before it was removed, and laid against his ass in a harsh slap.

Sam jumped away, registering the sudden realization that more than his back was bare just before he fell forward, screaming as his full body weight fell on his shoulders, and he felt the left one pop out of socket. His feet hit the ground, scraping over something that felt like concrete as his body swung. He was yelling, but couldn’t hear anything. He could almost feel his captor watching his body swing.

As he stopped moving, his attention returned to the idea that he was bound and naked, blind and deafened. That same leather implement fell against his shoulders, one after the other, and he bit his lip rather than yell out again.

He remembered the attack, and was vaguely aware of having been dragged before he completely lost consciousness. A fist slammed into his stomach and he curled as far forward as he could. He lost track shortly after that, his head swimming back toward unconsciousness.

 

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, that’s all I’m saying.” John said as he and Dean entered the hotel room.

“He’s in trouble. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”

“I thought Sam was the one with the visions.” John said dryly and Dean gave him a dirty look.

“I know he did a little research earlier, let’s see what’s on his computer.”

Dean opened the worn laptop and powered it up, immediately bringing up the browser’s history. There were a few newspaper articles; Davis’ email asking for help and that was about it. “Do you think Sam knew either of these boys?” John asked, leaning over his son’s shoulder to skim over the articles.

“He didn’t say. There doesn’t seem to be any connection, other than the fact that they both disappeared from campus.”

“Davis said something about thinking that they were related because of the circumstances. The fog, the fact that both boys were on financial aid, and both left behind belongings they would have taken with them if they were leaving the school.”

“I’m getting a bad feeling.” Dean said, as he scrolled down in the last article. The picture that stared back at him could have been Sam…or Sam a few years before, same unruly hair, too long from it’s last trim, boyish face that was similar enough that he might have been a long lost Winchester.

“This the business guy?”

Dean nodded. “Looks an awful lot like Sammy.”

“Are there any pictures of the other guy?”

Dean made a face as he paged through the article. “No. It was decided that he just left school.”

He looked up at his father, concern written all over his face. “What did he walk into here Dad?”

John Winchester shook his head and paced away. “I don’t know, but I suggest we find out…and find him.”

 

Credence Clearwater Revival. This was an improvement over the non-descript beat pounding he’d had the last time he’d found his way back to consciousness. At least he knew the words.

His body ached. His breathing was shallow to avoid the pain he instinctively knew would come if he filled his lungs with air. He was back on his knees, on the pedestal, which he supposed was better than hanging naked from his wrists.

Sam could taste blood in his mouth, feel the cloth of the gag cutting into him. His head hurt from the tightness of the gag and blindfold. The muscles in his thighs and arms burned.

_Think_ , he told himself. He should be able to—

A hand grabbed his chin and he got the impression he was being stared at. Suddenly the music stopped.

“Welcome home, Sam,” a voice said through the headphones…loud, possessive. “I’ve waited for you.” There was a low rumbling laugh. “Well, not really. But the others meant nothing to me. You are the only one that matters.”

“Who are you?” Sam asked, around the gag, straining to hear the sound, any sound other than that voice. He knew he was speaking, he could feel it in his throat, and there was the taste of blood on the back of his throat as his vocal chords contracted.

The laugh again, roaring in his ears, making him cringe. “I am…the one who holds your life in my hands. But that doesn’t matter as much as who you are.” The hand was on his back again. It slid over strained muscle, up to an aching shoulder. “You are my masterpiece. Mine.” The hand gripped tightly, pain springing up under his fingers until Sam yelled into the cloth. “You belong to me.”

The hand was gone and Sam tried to sense where the body was that the voice and hand belonged to. He shifted on his knees, trying to test the limits of the pedestal, determine the means of his prison. Two hands now, on his thighs. “The pedestal is not entirely stable. I wouldn’t squirm on it too much.”

Sam stilled, though not for the sake of obedience. He wasn’t really ready to test the truth, and the agony that would accompany another tumble from the perch. The hands were rubbing his skin now, up his thighs. Sam swallowed and tried not to move away. So far all he knew was that this was one sick fuck, and he wasn’t going to give him any more reason to hit him.

“Now, this should work better than it did with those others. None of them was ready for this. You are my inspiration after all. Let me explain how this will work. Everything in your existence is now dependent upon me. You will eat and drink and piss and shit when I tell you. Your body, is mine.”

With that the hand reached through Sam’s legs to grab his cock, holding it like it was a handle or leash. “The pedestal is pressure sensitive. When you step from it, the chain is pulled higher, so that your feet will only scrape the ground. The walls are glass, so that I can watch you.”

Sam felt warm air, through the hood, hovering near his mouth. “You are so beautiful. I will be watching you for a long time.”

There was silence then. The hands left his body, the warm air was gone. Sam listened to the silence, trying to figure out anything that might help him.

_”Your brother and I aren’t always going to be there, Sam. You have to learn to take care of yourself.”_

_“I’m trying, Dad.”_

_“Try harder.”_

_He swung the bat ineffectually, missing both Dean and his father. “The blindfold’s too tight.”_

_“You think something that’s blinded you is going to care about your comfort?”_

The music began its blaring again, cutting off all thought and Sam jumped, struggling not to fall. He adjusted to the sound, biting at the gag. He wondered how long he had been gone, if Dean and his father were looking for him yet. Leave it to Sam to storm off in anger only to fall prey to the very thing he’d been setting out to find. He could just about see the disappointment in his father’s eyes.

 

“Hmmm.” Dean spit out the pencil in his mouth and reached for another yearbook.

“Find something?”

“Maybe. Take a look.” He shifted the computer screen toward his father. The university library wasn’t busy yet, 9 am classes hadn’t quite gotten started and other than the nerdy librarian and a few pre-med students, they were alone. “Seems one to two male students with excellent grades, modest backgrounds and some serious student loan debt have disappeared every year since Sam started here. This guy,” Dean gestured to the picture on the computer, “was Sam’s room mate his first year. According to the records, he ‘left’ during the Christmas break and never came back.”

John flicked his gaze from the screen to the list Dean was compiling. “So…any of them ever turn up again?”

Dean shook his head. “Not that I can find. Most of them had no family, and were never reported missing.”

“Have you checked for any dead John Does?”

Dean looked up at him. “Working on it.”

“Let me know what you find.”

“Where are you going?” Dean asked as his father headed for the door.

“Check around, see if…maybe he’s back at the hotel wondering where we are.”

Dean nodded, not really believing Sammy would be found at the hotel, and knowing his father didn’t either. Something was wrong. Dean could feel it. “Just hold on Sammy. We’re trying.”

 

 

The music was gone. Sam had no recollection of when it had stopped, or how long it had been silent. He wasn’t asleep…he couldn’t sleep, not when any movement could send him careening off his perch, ripping his arms out of his shoulders as he went. He just wasn’t very aware of anything outside himself.

Time was something without meaning. His mouth was dry, his jaw ached from the gag. His head hurt from the noise and his body…he didn’t want to think about. He had to pee, bad enough he would be running for the nearest bathroom if he was able. His stomach rumbled. How long had he been there?

“Twenty four hours,” the voice rang in his ears, as if it knew what he was thinking. “Your father checked you out of the hotel this morning. He and your brother looked for you around campus for a while, but they’re gone now.”

Sam didn’t move, not outwardly anyway. His heart thumped louder, faster. They wouldn’t leave him. They would find him.

“Your father thinks you’ve left them for good this time. Said you should have stayed gone.”

No. No. It repeated in his head vehemently, but he knew there was some truth. John Winchester had never understood his youngest son’s predilection for normal, for a life other than the one they had known. They had fought about it before, just like they had before Sam had stormed away. And Dean…Dean was the good son, the one who did what Daddy ordered, without question. If John said leave, Dean would go.

Sam shook his head to express his denial of his captor’s words and heard the laughter.

“They won’t be coming for you.” The hand stroked down his back, almost like he was being petted. “This will be so much easier if you don’t fight me, Sam. I want to take care of you.”

Sam shivered under the touch, his mind rebelling. “I figured by now you’d be ready for a little relief.”

The hand left him and his arms fell heavily in front of him, the pull of them above his head released and nearly upsetting him. He steadied himself, pressing his bound hands against the pedestal and redistributing his weight.

“Are you hungry, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, because, hell yes, he was hungry, but he wasn’t about to admit it. This was where all the training came in, whether or not he had ever been good enough for John Winchester, he had to be good enough now. He shook his head cautiously.

He could feel him, moving…around, near. Sam felt his breathing change. If he could just anticipate—“Thirsty?” Again he shook his head. He knew his captor was there, just behind him, so close he could feel the static electricity from his clothing.

“I can hear your stomach rumbling, Sam,” the voice said. The body moved, Sam lost the feel for it. The voice though was as close, as intimate as ever. “It’s time for you to pee, Sam. Step down from the pedestal.”

He didn’t move, though his bladder cried out for relief and his arms hung loose in front of him. He couldn’t…The hand was back, grabbing him by the throat and pulling and he lurched forward, trying to get his feet under him before he fell, and only barely succeeding. His legs were rubbery and numb, and he stumbled as he was led a few steps away. “Stand here.”

The hand left his throat, moved south, holding his cock, aiming it. “Pee.”

Sam swallowed hard. Surely this wasn’t—“Do as I say, Sam, or there will be consequences.” There was a harsh edge to the voice that was different, and Sam felt himself flush from head to toe. To be so helpless…so full of need for something so simple…it was humiliating. “I know that you need to, I’ve been watching you,” the voice cajoled…the hand pulled a little and Sam couldn’t stop himself.

He peed into the dark, hearing nothing but the insidious voice murmuring into his ears, calling him a good boy, while the other hand, the one not holding his dick like he was a 3 year old being potty trained, rubbed down his back. As the flow ebbed, Sam sagged, feeling the relief flood through his aching body.

He was alone again, the hands and voice silent. He turned, trying to place himself in a room he couldn’t see, to find an enemy he couldn’t hear. “You have ten minutes. I suggest you make them count.”

 

 

Dean had nightmares, sick, twisted visions of demons and warlocks tormenting his brother, attacking him while he was captive and weak. Sam’s voice chased him back to consciousness, “Help me Dean.”

Dean sat up off his stack of books and papers, pulling at the paper stuck to his cheek, irritated. A quick check of the library clock said it was noon. There had been no sleep through the night, only research and weapons inventory and hunting. Hunting for Sam.

Dean’s only break from the books had come shortly after his father had left, to hunt down the two spots on campus he knew Sam sometimes went to be alone. If he was wrong, and Sammy was just pissed, he knew he would have found him there. But his brother wasn’t hiding in the loft of the campus chapel, nor was he hunkered down in the bowels of the law library. Ask anyone, and Sam had never even been there.

He sorted through his notes, shaking his head. In total there seemed to be 9 men missing, all of them boasting physical similarities to his baby brother, all of them smart, on their way to successful lives, after having come from nowhere. Five of them, like Sam, had fought hard to get in. All of them stood at least 5’11”…which meant that whoever or whatever had taken them was a big son of a bitch. He knew Sam wouldn’t go down without a fight…and more than the rest, Sam really knew how to fight.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face and stretched. He reached for the computer, noticing he had received an email from a contact with the local police. He opened it, scanning quickly through the preliminary stuff. His face paled as he reached the attachments, and he fumbled for his cell phone, quickly thumbing buttons to call his father. “Where are you?”

“About ten minutes away from the library.”

“Make it five.”

“You found something.”

“You could say that.”

A few minutes later, John entered the library, moving quickly for his son who was now pacing beside the table strewn with books and papers. “What?”

Dean gestured toward the computer and John sat to look. “Between 3 weeks and 6 months after each disappearance, a mutilated body has shown up somewhere nearby. Two in San Jose, three in Oakland, four in San Francisco. So mutilated they couldn’t be identified. Not even through dental records.”

John looked up at Dean. “That doesn’t mean they are the missing men.”

Dean stopped pacing. “Did you see the pictures, Dad? This thing has Sam.”

“We don’t know that it’s a thing at all.” John said, though he paled when he scrolled down to the picture of the first body. “Why wouldn’t anyone have put this all together before now?”

Dean shrugged and went back to pacing. “They’re too spread out, time wise maybe? They’re never found near campus, or in the same place twice.”

“Okay, let’s assume you’re right and these 9 John Does are our missing college students. That says that our minimum window is 3 weeks.”

Dean looked like he might be sick. “Three weeks? Did you read those reports? The bodies had wounds consistent with torture…weeks of torture…scars and healing wounds and fresh wounds. Three weeks? Sam…” He choked on the name and walked away.

“Where are you going?”

“To get us some research help. This is a college, right?”

 

Sam had walked the confines of the room, as much as his bindings allowed. He couldn’t find a door, it must have been in the one wall he couldn’t reach. Three paces from the pedestal to the closest wall, four paces along that wall to the next. Five paces to the limit of his leash. Ten paces to the next wall. Four paces back to the first wall.

It was easy to get disoriented, to lose himself in the dark. The last wall was glass, sleek and cool under his fingers. The other two were more like cement or cinder block. The floor was cement, cold, rough. He guessed it was a basement of some sort…then again, not many buildings in the earthquake zone had basements.

He felt someone come into the room and froze. “Very good, Sam. Please return to the pedestal.”

Sam hesitated, but found his way back to it, his hands resting on its surface. Hands arranged him, pulling his hips back, leaning him forward slightly, moving his legs a little further apart. “Stay.”

Sam might have said something, but for the gag in his mouth. Something warm and wet flowed down his back, and the hand followed it. A cloth moved over his skin, scrubbing lightly as it cleaned first his back and neck, then down his arms. “Such a dirty boy you are Sam. I like my things clean, orderly…neat.” More water, squeezed so that it ran down his ass and legs. The cloth moved over his skin, passing between his ass cheeks before sliding over his thighs.

Sam wanted to pull away, to move. It was horrifying that he could stand there and take this. That he hadn’t found a way free yet. The hand circled his cock, the cloth adding a touch of roughness as it cleaned each and every inch of him, stroking up and down his dick repeatedly.

“Mine,” the voice said into his brain and it repeated, rolling around inside him, drawing him further away from coherent thought. The wash cloth left him. His sense of balance was off, a wave of vertigo threatening to topple him to the ground. He wondered briefly if there was some sort of drug in the water, a hallucinogen to relax him.

Something thicker than water was on his skin now, an oil he realized as the hands moved through it, over his back and shoulders, pushing into muscles sore and tight from his imprisonment, and despite everything, his body responded. Muscles unknotted. Relaxed.

He realized belatedly that the voice was speaking…not that it was really saying much. Soft words of encouragement as hands slowly moved lower, applying pressure in all the right places. Sam didn’t even really recognize the first few swipes over his ass cheeks. He floated on the pleasure that contrasted the pain he had become familiar with.

The finger moved deftly, between his cheeks, sliding up toward his hole, teasing it lightly. Sam tensed, sensing a change, fearing the worst. This was not—It pushed inside and Sam bolted, pulling away, knocking the pedestal away, moving…then he felt his arms snap up, over his head, pulling him off his feet, sending him reeling, swinging, until the hands caught his feet and pulled him down. There was a slap across his face, only barely muffled by the hood, stinging.

As his feet touched the floor, they were knocked away and he landed on his knees, his face pulled down to the floor. A booted foot on his neck encouraged him to hold still as the hands released him. Leather slapped against him, seven smacks of something long and thin that stung and he could feel welts rising on his ass and lower back. “Mine,” the voice said again and an entire finger pressed inside him without preamble.

Sam shook beneath the boot, wanting to pull away despite the pain of punishment. This was something he never…only Dean had ever touched him…and that was always a heated thing, hurried, frantic, a response to danger and the thrill of the hunt. This was…slow.

The finger slowly fucked his ass, sliding on massage oil…gentle almost…working in and out, easing him open. It was far more intimate than anything Sam had ever had, even with Dean, maybe especially with Dean. He squirmed as a second finger was added, still moving slowly.

This was rape, his mind yelled at him. “I am going to fuck you now Sam. If you move I will hurt you.”

Sam started screaming into the gag before the boot was even fully off his neck. It started simply as a hearty “No” that the cloth in his mouth turned into a long, pronounced “Oh…”

Then there was a cock invading where only Dean’s had ever been, so unlike Dean’s…smaller, but thicker, slow, methodically moving deeper into him. Sam screamed a litany of curses that were lost to the gag and the concrete. The dick fucked him slowly, and it was as if his entire world reduced to that sensation, that one touch. When it was joined by a constant pulling on his own cock, Sam’s screams lost all sense of being words, punctuated by grunts and his mind closing to coherent thought…because here he was being raped and he was going to come.

He was…and he did…falling into a dark abyss where he could only whisper “I’m sorry I’m not a good son” to an image of his father, over and over again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_He was dying. Blood oozed from wounds, from his ears, from his ass and he was dying…alone, in a cold, dark room…alone…violated, beaten, bloodied…and so alone it hurt. He cried out for Dean…Dean who was always there, who took care of him, made him safe, even when he didn’t want it…and only silence echoed back to him…_

Sam was only vaguely aware of the transition from nightmare to reality, dim acceptance of the situation making it easy to lay still on the cold concrete floor, feeling every inch of his body, each ache, each pain, every bruise and open wound. He didn’t shift to try to find comfort, had given up on comfort. There was only endless discomfort here. Discomfort and obedience. Some part of his mind worked to identify the music playing in his ears, some part stuck on Dean’s name, repeating it in his head like a mantra to keep him sane.

Sam was afraid. The dream hadn’t been like a vision…there was no blinding pain, no emotional attachment…just a certainty that it wasn’t far from the truth. He didn’t even start as he felt the hand, on the back of his neck. He lay still, as if he were still unconscious, though he was certain the hand…the person who owned the hand, knew. 

He was surprised when he felt the pressure on his mouth loosen, involuntarily moving his jaw as the gag was untied and together with the hood, removed. The song ended, Neil Diamond, he realized after the fact. His jaw popped as he moved it, his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“On your knees, Sam.”

There was no hesitation, Sam pushed himself up on protesting arms, pulling his legs under him, despite the scrapes on his knees from before, despite the cracking and bleeding he felt on his shins. His hand were heavy with the weight of his bonds and they dropped to his lap as soon as he was upright.

He was going to have to pee again soon. He needed water, food. It felt like days since he’d had either. His throat was raw from screaming. The hand was on his head. “Good boy, Sam. You know I hate to punish you.” The chuckle was deep, rocking into his head, making him dizzy. “No, actually, I rather enjoy it. But you knew that.” 

He was being petted, like a dog. “I’m prepared to take care of you this morning, Sam. But, I want you to ask me for what you need.”

Sam sat beneath the stroking hand without speaking, unsure he even had a voice left to speak. “You must be thirsty by now. The human body needs water, Sam. You can’t go much longer without it. Surely you know that.”

_”You need to hydrate better, Sam.” Dean said, patting his back as Sam hunched over, clutching at his side._

_“Especially in this heat.” John added, throwing a water bottle at them. “Get him to drink that, and then get him inside. He’s done for the day.”_

_“It’s just a cramp.” Sam protested, trying to straighten up. “I’m fine.”_

_“Done.” John replied without even looking at him. “Dean and I will finish up.”_

_There was no use arguing with that tone, Sam knew it. “I’m not a baby,” he growled at Dean, swiping the water bottle and making his own way back into the apartment building._

The hand was stroking his back now, comforting, cajoling. “Tell me what you need Sam. Ask for it.”

Sam swallowed dryly and moved his lips. It took several tries before he could feel his vocal chords respond. “Water?” It felt like he croaked the word, though he couldn’t hear himself to know. 

“What about the water, Sam?” 

Sam closed his eyes under the blindfold. It was a little thing, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything. “I—I—may I have some…water….please?” he croaked out, shuddering against the gentle hand resting now between his shoulder blades.

“Open your mouth, Sam.” 

He felt something against his lips, round, small…a bottle. He opened his mouth and felt the first cool mouthful flow into him. He tilted his head back a little and swallowed, not thinking, just letting the water fill him. When it stopped he sat very still, waiting. 

“What else, Sam?” The voice was inside him, and he shook his head as if he could shake loose of it. “Are you hungry? You must be. I’ve brought crackers for you, and bread. Would you like some?”

Sam nodded. The stroking stopped. “Ask.”

He was shaking, he could feel it in his hands, in his stomach. “C-Could I have…bread…?”

“Open.” The hand put a cube of a dry bread on his tongue and Sam closed his mouth over it, his stomach roaring its displeasure. “There’s my good Sam.” The voice said, the hand back on his shoulders, rubbing. “See how I take care of what’s mine, Sam? So much better than your father ever did.”

Sam didn’t answer, he chewed and swallowed and asked for more. This was not submission. It was survival. Dean and his father would find him…would come for him. No matter what the gnawing doubt whispered to him in the voice that invaded his head.

 

Sam was afraid. Dean was as sure of that as he was that someone, or something, was going to pay for making Sam afraid. He was afraid and alone…hurting…and it hit Dean like a physical blow to the stomach. He searched the dark landscape of his dream, knowing Sam was there, somewhere, in the dark…counting on him to save him. He called out to him, but wind tore the sound away so that even Dean couldn’t hear it. His hands groped the darkness, coming away empty and aching. Whimpers, half heard whispers that might have been his name and Dean turned round and round looking.

The knock at the door brought him up, out of the dream, off the bed, standing between the two hotel beds, still dressed as he had been two nights ago. His father looked up from the computer and they both looked toward the door. It was almost midnight.

Dean nodded to his father and moved to the door, his hand on the gun still stuck in the back of his pants. “Who is it?”

“Dean, it’s Claire. Let me in.”

He stepped back and unlocked the door, admitting the tall red-head with a nod. She looked different then when he had last seen her, the khaki sheriffs’ uniform replaced by the dark blue of the SFPD. “Dad, Claire Aevlin, Claire, my father, John Winchester.”

She shook hands with the older Winchester then dropped a package onto the nearest bed. “I ran into Claire a few years ago, north of here. She had some werewolf trouble.” Dean said in way of explanation. “She moved to San Francisco to be closer to her sister and is now a Lieutenant for the San Fran Police.”

“I hope your being here in the middle of the night means something good.” John said.

“That depends on your definition of good.” Claire replied. “This whole thing has opened a can of worms. There are orders being rushed through court to exhume the bodies, but I don’t need them to know they won’t all match.”

“What?” Dean asked, his face angry.

“No Dean, I did the research myself. Look.” She dumped the contents of the manila envelope she’d carried in onto the bed sorting through the folders that fell onto the bedspread. “This is the most recent. Jacob Armstrong. It is also the most violent. He disappeared two months ago and this body,” she held up a second folder, “was found twenty four days later.” She matched each of the other folders, working back in time. “All 8 of these have characteristics that let us preliminarily match them, height, weight, tattoos, piercings, etc. This one, however…” She pointed to the last one, or the first one. “This one doesn’t match.”

Dean took the folder from her hand. “Jim Salmon. He was a computer science major, excellent grades, extracurriculars, and Sam’s roommate for 6 months.”

“The body that corresponds to approximately 1 month after his disappearance is only 5 foot 5.” Claire said. “He was 5’11”.”

“I remember him.” John said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kinda nerdy guy, curly hair.”

Dean looked up at him. “You met Sam’s roommate.”

“I didn’t say I’d met him.” He met his son’s gaze and Dean smirked. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who shadowed Sam to make sure he was safe. 

“So, what does this mean?”

Claire stood. “I’m out on a limb here, guys. I owe you one Dean, and I realize your brother’s life is on the line. It would seem to me that this might make Jim Salmon a suspect, but I’m not officially on the case. A task force is being assembled, cops from all three cities, and feds. This is going to get thick with police really quick, especially if those bodies start matching up to missing people.”

“We’ve dealt with stuff like this before, Lt. Aevlin.” John said as she moved to the door. “And we appreciate you taking the time to drive down here.”

“You be careful. Don’t get in the way and end up behind bars. You can’t help him if you do.” She smiled at Dean and he nodded.

“Thanks, Claire.”

She nodded and disappeared out the door. Dean sighed and sat on the bed. “Could this really be just some guy? Some guy grabbed Sam?” Dean asked, scrubbing at the growth on his face. 

John sighed and returned to the computer. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean…you hunt long enough, you start to think everything has a demon or ghost or something behind it. But that isn’t necessarily the way it works. People can be sick creatures.”

He pulled his hand over his face, pressing the heels of his hands against tired eyes. “Try to get some more sleep. I’ll see what I can find out about Mr. Jim Salmon.”

 

“Dean, wake up.” John’s hand grabbed Dean’s wrist and pulled him awake. “Get up and get in the car.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fremont.”

“Huh?” Dean was on his feet, moving, but still disoriented. 

“Fremont. Salmon lives across the fucking bridge in Fremont.”

Still half asleep, Dean followed his father to the Impala, feeling like he was missing something. He started as the car door closed and he realized what it was. Sam. Sam was what he was missing. “Hold on, Sam.” He thought it around clenched teeth and a fist against his thigh.

 

“Dean.”

The word escaped him before he could recall it, and he knew, _he_ heard it. The headphones were gone. His voice sounded strange, strained and pale and weak. He hadn’t been asleep, but he wasn’t really awake. If he had he would have known, he would have held still, held his tongue.

The movement stopped. Hands on his back, pressing him into the harsh edge of the pedestal. “What did you say, Sam?”

Sam shook his head. The body behind him pushed harder, and Sam groaned. His head was swimming with images, with Dean’s voice. The cock was buried inside him, pulsing, waiting. He wanted it to be done, to get past this part. He was growing accustomed to the routine and it made it easier.

“Say it again, Sam,” the voice demanded.

“Dean. I said Dean.”

“You call out your brother’s name while you’re getting fucked?” The cock moved, pulling out slowly, almost completely before pressing in just as slowly. “While you’re getting fucked by me?”

Sam hung his head. He had no words. His cock was hard, and the insistent invasion of the cock in his ass was overwhelming…it wasn’t violent, it was slow, methodical…touching him in ways he had craved without knowing it, taking him places all the wild fucking with Dean never had. There was no intimacy, no that wasn’t right. There was, two people couldn’t know each other as well as they did without intimacy. It was never gentle, it was never slow…it was never admitted to or talked about. It happened, it was over and they moved on.

Nails down his already welted and sore back brought Sam back to his predicament. “Do you fuck your brother, Sam? Do you let him fuck you?”

Sam shook his head, but his cock quirked with his words, and he knew. “You are a dirty, dirty boy, Sam.”

There was a hand on his cock now, roughly pulling. The other hand unexpectedly pulled the blindfold off, and Sam squinted his eyes against the sudden glare, even as his head was turned toward the wall, toward a mirrored wall. “Do you see how dirty you are, Sam?”

Sam stared at the reflection, at the hand pulling on his dick, at the dick shoving itself inside him. His skin was marbled in varied shades of blue and black and purple. His eyes moved, up to finally see…but the hand in his hair pulled his head down and away. “You see what I want you to see.” 

He was angry now, his thrusting erratic. “Look, Sam. Look at yourself. Dirty brother-fucker.”

“Dean.” It was pleading…it was desperate and it made it worse.

“Again, Sam. Say it.”

“Dean.” Throaty and deep, his voice sounded foreign to him. 

“Again.”

He screamed it, pouring himself into the name and his orgasm as he came, watching helplessly as his come flowed onto the floor beneath him…as his captor fucked him harder and harder, finally pulling Sam’s face back to him as he came, filling Sam’s ass. The blindfold was roughly replaced and Sam’s arms hauled up over his head. There would be punishment, and Sam knew it would be harsh. He closed his eyes as he heard the door open and whispered Dean’s name.

 

Dean and his father sat in the Impala across the street from a diner, watching. Jim-fucking-Salmon smiled at a customer, made small talk with a waitress, and generally looked like any normal person should. Dean was fairly certain there was nothing normal about Jim-fucking-Salmon. 

“Let’s go beat him up and make him tell us where Sam is.” Dean said through clenched teeth.

“We can’t just go beat up some guy because he used to go to school with your brother.” John said, his eyes scouring the street. “We need to be more subtle.”

Dean looked at his father with a face that clearly said, _I don’t **do** subtle_. “Come on. Follow my lead.”

There wasn’t much lead to follow, as soon as they’d stepped into the diner, Salmon was at their side, showing them to a table and looking at Dean with recognition all over his face. “Aren’t you….um…Dean, right?”

Dean nodded, and Salmon’s face broke into a grin. “Sam’s brother. I could never forget such a pretty face.”

“Hey. How you doing?”

“Things are good. How is Sam? I lost track of him after I left school.”

“Yeah…he’s…he’s…good.” Dean looked at his father but John was staring at his hands. No help there. So much for leading. “Actually, he’s not so good. He’s missing.”

“Oh…no. I’m very sorry.” He actually looked sorry. His face paled and he called over his shoulder for someone named Paul. “Hey, keep an eye on things?”

The other man, slightly older, beginning to bald nodded and Salmon pulled a chair over. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well…he was last seen at the school, two nights—no, it’s three now. We were…visiting.”

“Did Davis ask him to come by?”

“Davis?”

Salmon nodded. “Truthfully, I think Davis would do anything to get old friends together. He doesn’t have anyone since his partner died. He comes in here about once a week. Lately he’s been talking about people disappearing. He mentioned Sam.”

“Well, now Sam is missing.” John looked up, glancing first at Dean before pinning Salmon to his chair with his eyes. “What do you know about this Davis?”

“Oh, no…don’t get the wrong idea. Davis is lonely, but not…not a criminal. He sees patterns, things most people don’t get. He just doesn’t do well socially.”

“What about these disappearances?” Dean asked.

Salmon hunched forward. “I really don’t know. They all seem so random. I knew a few. Markin and Josher were friends of Garrett’s, so they were around. Two of the others were pledging the fraternity my study partner was in. They really don’t seem to have much in common.”

“So who’s this Garrett?”

Salmon blushed. “Kendall Garrett. He was my…boyfriend. Strange guy now that I look back on it. He came from a really wealthy family, but he hung around with us…the ones who earned our way in. He was always giving me things, buying me stuff I didn’t want. He liked to take care of me. It started out small, but when I called it off it was so bad he’d get angry if I opened a door for myself or made myself something to eat. It was all too much for me.”

“Is that why you left school?” Dean asked. 

“Partly. I met Paul, and he was so much more stable than Garrett. I didn’t think I fit in at Stanford. My financial aid went farther at San Jose State…and I got my degree there, although I changed to a business major to help Paul run this place.”

“Did Garrett know Sam?”

“In passing. He met sometimes in the dorm room, but Sam was always so dedicated to his studies. Garrett sometimes commented on it, said he was cute and all…but Garrett…he had a type.”

“A type?”

Salmon nodded. “I realized it shortly after I started dating him. His eyes wandered. Sam was definitely his type. Tall, lean, shy, kind of geeky…and above all, not wealthy.”

“Do you think this Garrett is capable of…kidnapping?” Dean asked. _At the least_.

Salmon shrugged. “I really don’t know. He was possessive, but he was never violent, not with me.”

“Thank you for your time.” Dean and his father stood, moving out of the diner and back to the Impala. “It isn’t him.”

“No,” his father agreed. “It isn’t.”

“So we find Garrett.”

“And beat him until he coughs up your brother.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah, he said Kendall Garrett, why?” Dean paced the room as he spoke on the phone.

“The Kendall Garrett. You really live off the grid, don’t you Dean?”

“Who the fuck is he, Claire?”

“Rich, powerful. His father got the money in oil. Garrett has quadrupled it since he took over the family business. He gives huge amounts to charity. He sits on the board of directors of several major corporations, and non profits.”

“Shit.”

“You can’t just walk in on this guy and accuse him. You don’t have any evidence.”

“In my line of work evidence doesn’t always lead to the bad guy.”

“This isn’t your line of work, Dean. It’s mine.”

Dean fairly growled into the phone and her tone softened. “Give me a few hours. I’ll see if I can feed the lead into the task force. If we can find a way to connect him to all of the men, we might be able to get a search warrant.”

“Okay, fine. But call me back as soon as you know something. We’re starting to go a little crazy here.”

“I know. I will.”

Dean closed his phone and tossed it on the bed as John came in with several bags. “Anything?”

Dean shook his head and grabbed the bag. “She’ll call.” He set the bag on the small table and started emptying it. “He’s some fucking big shot or something.”

“Money doesn’t mean he isn’t some sick fuck who kills people.”

“I know. It just makes it harder.”

“Okay, let’s get some food into us, grab a shower and regroup.”

Dean looked down at the jar of peanut butter in his hands. “Sammy’s out there somewhere counting on us, Dad.” His stomach rolled at the thought and he put the jar down before he threw it. “And here we are, fumbling around like a couple of amateurs.”

“I know.” John’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, his eyes on the dirty motel carpet. Dean couldn’t begin to guess what thoughts were percolating behind his dark eyes. “I’m going to shower first. You eat.”

Dean watched him go, then reached for the peanut butter and bread, before abandoning both and turning the computer toward him. Maybe the police had to watch themselves, but Dean didn’t. He hadn’t gotten so good at breaking and entering for nothing. All he needed was a place to start. 

By the time his father was out of the shower, Dean had a list of addresses, scribbled a note and disappeared out the door.

 

Sam moved slowly when the pain of not moving became too great, rolling from his stomach to his side. He listened to himself breathing, a low, raspy wet sound that told him something was wrong inside. 

He was breaking apart. His body, his head…his mind. He could feel the compartmentalization as he fought to hold on to himself. Something of himself hovered, in the back of his mind, strategizing, calculating. Something else whispered that it was useless, he couldn’t stand, couldn’t even sit. He was weak. He was broken.

He was torn.

In every way that mattered. His skin was torn to shreds along his shins and knees, down his back where the riding crop had laid him bare and bleeding. His slip up had earned him a beating…one that didn’t end until Sam was begging, crying, anything to make it end. 

He’d been left laying on the floor. Not really unconscious, not really awake. He stared at the black of the blindfold and felt himself breathe. As long as he was breathing, he was okay…he could hold on. His eyes rolled closed and he reached inside of him for that place where Dean was…that part of his heart where he could still feel his brother and he held onto it…Some part of his head whispered his name…and kept whispering it while Sam shivered and held on.

 

Five addresses into the list, and Dean was getting frustrated. He’d run down the three in Palo Alto first, since they were closest. Two businesses and a frat house. Nothing. The trip to San Francisco hadn’t taken very long at 10pm, and the next two were warehouses down by the pier, and still nothing. 

He could almost believe that Garrett was clean, but for the fact that he knew he wasn’t. Couldn’t be. He was their last lead. Five days. Sam had been gone for five days and they had one fucking lead, and Dean couldn’t believe how scared he was. Werewolves and vampires he understood. He could function, knew what to do. Claire was right, serial killers were completely not his line of work.

Jimmying locks and such though, that he could do. And maybe it wasn’t legal and wouldn’t hold up in court, but in the end all that mattered was Sammy. Dean looked around him and went to work on the lock of the next address. It looked like a storage facility, corporate paper and data storage.

He figured he had about ten minutes before security figured out he’d cut the camera and opened the door, and he had better make them count. Not that he knew what he was looking for. This was more Sam’s department than his. He ran his finger along dusty boxes with boring descriptions like “Accounts Payable 2001” and “General Ledger 2003” and rounded a corner. 

He skipped a few rows, and found more boring boxes. A few more rows and things took a turn for the interesting. “Stanford, 2004.” Dean paused. Pulled the box out. Opened it.

There were papers, books, neatly placed in the box. He ruffled through it and nearly put it back before his eye fell on a single word. _Sam_

Dean froze, his hand hovering over the envelope. 

_Sam_

“Over here, the door’s open.”

Dean grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in his jacket before pushing the box back into place and sliding into the shadows. He listened to the guards and moved through the dark, moving closer to the door as the guards moved away from it. 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he cleared the door, and sprinted for the Impala, dropping the envelope on the passenger side and bringing the car roaring to life to beat it out of the area before some ambitious rent-a-cop decided to widen their search.

He got out onto 101 and looked at the envelope. With one eye on the road, Dean fumbled to open it, dumping out a DVD case, some pictures and a notebook. He cussed to himself and stepped harder on the accelerator. “Fuck.” He pulled off the road suddenly. Slamming on the brakes and dragging the pictures over where he could angle them to the overhead light, Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself.

A man knelt atop a pedestal, naked and bound. His head was down, his hair in his eyes. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. It was enough. It wasn’t Sam, but it gave him a fair indication of what to expect when he did find him.

“Fuck.”

Dean roared back on to the road. At least now he knew. 

He knew that Kendall Garrett was a dead man.

 

_”Sam. Sammy, can you hear me?”_

_“Go away Dean. It hurts.”_

_“I know. I can make it better.”_

_“No.”_

_Sam’s face was hiding under his pillow. His eye was already black and swollen. But that wasn’t what was making him miserable. “I’m never gonna get it, Dean.”_

_“You will. It takes time.”_

_Sam rolled over and looked at his older brother, tears welling in his eyes despite his determination not to cry. He had failed. Again. “He hates me.”_

_Dean was busy examining the black eye. “Who?”_

_“Dad.”_

_“Dad doesn’t hate you, doofus.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “You’re going to be fine. Take the aspirin Dad gave you.”_

_“No.”_

_“You said it hurts.”_

_“It does. It reminds me to be better next time.”_

_“Whatever. Stop moaning about it then.”_

Sam moaned. The hands bathed him as he lay on the floor, short, harsh strokes against skin raw and screaming. The water was scalding, and his voice had failed him, his screams gone bloody and dark in his throat. Each wave of hot water over his already burning skin brought the words to mind, “Dirty Boy Sam.”

The open wounds were the worst, as those hands scrubbed his body.

“You belong to me, Sam.” The voice was angry, though it sounded much the same as always, and Sam wasn’t sure how he knew he was angry. “Your brother doesn’t want you. He left you, he’s gone. He knows you’re a bad, sick boy. He knows you belong with me.”

Sam let the words wash over him without arguing. Arguing only brought punishment. He lay still and let the hands move him, wash him, touch him in places only his brother had ever touched him. Dean…he couldn’t blame Dean…After all, Sam had left him first.

 

Dean parked the Impala and was out of the car before the engine had stopped making noise, into the door of the hotel room. “Where the hell have you—“ John stood, stopped just by the look on Dean’s face.

He fell into the chair, pulling the computer closer. His hands were shaking as he opened the DVD drawer and pulled one of the discs from the envelope. Without saying anything, he settled the disc into the player and pushed the drawer in. His finger hesitated over the key. He didn’t want to see what was on it, but he knew…they needed to make the most of the lead…needed to know.

“Dean?”

With a slow exhale, Dean pressed the key and the player started. The camera looked in on a room, in the center of which a man was bound, naked and kneeling on some sort of pedestal. There was a spotlight on him, casting the rest of the room in shadow. Movement behind the man suggested a person was there. A slapping sound made Dean, and the man in the video, jump.

“This will be easier if you obey me, Sam.” 

“My name isn’t Sam.” The man raised his head, his eyes filled with fear. The slapping sound came again and he yelled out.

“From this moment on, your name is Sam.” Another slap. “Say it.”

“Sam.”

Dean clenched his jaw and turned away. 

“Where did you find this?”

“A storage place in Frisco.”

“One of Garrett’s?”

Dean nodded. His stomach twisted. Somewhere out there, Sam was in this man’s place. Sam was alone with this sick, twisted bastard. He hit the pause button as the man in the shadows hit the naked man again. “I can’t…”

John’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let me.”

“No, Dad…we…”

“We have to Dean. If we’re going to find Sam.” Dean got up, wiping his hands against his jeans and John slipped into the seat. “Take a shower, get some sleep. I’ll see if there’s anything here we can use.”

 

“Gotcha.” Dean sat up from his not sleeping to look at his father. John’s eyes met his. “Garrett. Four hours of video, but he fucked up.”

Dean was off the bed and at his father’s side, as he pointed to the computer screen. The camera was at a different angle and there was a reflection, a small part of a face. Dean reached over his father’s shoulder to zoom in on the face until it filled the screen. “Is that Garrett?”

“Looks like.”

“Where is this place?” 

“Don’t know. All I really have is that it looks like mirrored glass, and cinder blocks. The video quality isn’t the greatest.”

“We need to get this to Claire…and figure out where this Garrett guy lives.”

John looked up at Dean and Dean didn’t like what he saw in them. There was anguish there, and fear. “What?”

John’s eyes closed. His head turned away. “Sam.” He choked on the name and took a deep breath. “This is my fault.”

“Dad—“

“No Dean. I—was too hard on him.”

Dean put his hands on his hips. “You always have been.”

John was startled, opening his eyes before lurching to his feet. “He was always so soft…he needed to learn.”

“He needed you.” Dean countered. “He thinks you hate him.” 

John paced away. Dean didn’t follow, just watched him. “He thinks you blame him.”

“For what?”

Dean sighed and sat in the chair John had vacated. “Everything. This.” He held up his hands to indicate the hotel room and scattered weapons. “The way we live. Mom.”

John sank onto one of the beds. His hands were shaking as the rubbed over the days of growth on his face. “I think that he…he tries to be normal, he craves normal…because it will make it all right again…somehow…and yet, he can’t stand it when you’re disappointed in him…and every time you’re here, you find something to be disappointed about.”

Dean stopped, staring at his hands. He’d never spoken to his father this way. He’d never had the nerve…but now, everything was different. It should be Sam sitting on that bed, should be him and Sam in that bed, touching each other just to feel something…holding on to one another to realize they were still alive. But it wasn’t Sam and right that moment nothing else mattered. 

“Sam isn’t like us, Dad. He isn’t a soldier. He fights because he wants to be, he wants you to be proud of him. He hunts because we expect it.”

 

_”Stop squirming Sammy.”_

_“Stop calling me that.”_

_“What? It’s you’re name.”_

_“Sam, my name is Sam.”_

_“Whatever. Stop moving around.”_

_“Are you done yet?”_

_“It’s a tie, Sam. A fucking bow tie. What do I know about tying them?”_

_“I should have gotten the clip on.”_

_“Here, let me.” Big hands took over, deftly tying the soft material, arranging it just so. Sam was eye to eye with John now, after a growth spurt that didn’t seem to be coming to an end. “You look good, Sam.”_

_“Thanks Dad.”_

_“You armed?”_

_“It’s the prom, Dad, not a ghost hunt.”_

_“Can’t be too careful.”_

_“He’s gut a gun at the ankle, Dad, and a blade in his jacket.”_

_John nodded. “Have a good time.”_

_“Keys?” Sam looked at Dean and Dean’s eyebrow arched._

_“If you get so much as a scratch—“_

_“I won’t.” Dean tossed him the keys and Sam left to pick up his date, turning down the Led Zepplin that came screaming through the radio, but not turning it off. It was almost like taking Dean along for the ride, made him less nervous about his date…though he’d never have admitted that to Dean._

Led Zepplin rocked through his body and Sam struggled to breath. The pedestal rocked as he sought balance and his legs cramped. His shoulders throbbed from injury and the strain of their position. He mouthed the words to the song around the gag, concentrating on them, as if they were a connection to his sanity. 

Though, to be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain about the sanity thing. If he was to be honest with himself, he wasn’t really sure about much of anything anymore, beyond one thing. His name was Sam.

That was one thing the voice didn’t let him forget. His name was Sam and he belonged to—No, he didn’t—He swallowed against the gag and shook his head. No. He was not going to admit that. Not even in his head. 

His notion of self wasn’t quite that far gone…yet. Though he wasn’t sure how long it would last. He had no idea how long…when it started…it could have been months for all he knew. No, not that long. Weeks maybe. The voice had stopped telling him. Maybe that was just as well. It made it easier not thinking about the time…about how long they had left him there…and whether or not they were ever going to come for him. 

Maybe they never would. Maybe he would die here, beaten to death…strangled. Maybe all they would find when they came was his body, torn apart and left to bleed.


	4. Chapter 4

The envelope had been delivered to the police task force, addressed to the leader, a note inside cryptic, but indicating where on the enclosed DVD to look. The pictures were included. Everything but the notebook. 

Dean kept that. He hadn’t even shown it to his father. 

And now they would wait. Not patiently. Patience was not a virtue common to the Winchester line. John waited by pacing up and down the hotel room, mentally reviewing every conversation he had ever had with his youngest son, listening to the accusations in the voice of his eldest.

Dean waited differently. He waited by hovering outside the headquarters of Garrett’s empire. He watched the building. He watched for Garrett. Maybe the police couldn’t touch him without evidence, but Dean could. Dean would.

His eyes swept the glass and chrome and cement and wondered if Sam was somewhere inside. He didn’t think so. He couldn’t feel him, the second heartbeat that was as common and familiar as his own. He couldn’t be sure what he would do if he actually saw Garrett…but he slowly got out of his car. His movements were fast then, across the street, up to the door…into the elevator.

Claire was waiting for him on the floor where Garrett’s office was. She stopped him and he pulled free, but she put herself in front of him again. “Don’t make me arrest you Dean,” she said, her hand on his arm. “He isn’t there. Hasn’t been all day.”

Dean’s eyes flicked her way, then to the door. “Where?”

“We’re working on that. His secretary will only say he’s gone out of town.”

“I don’t believe it.”

His body was thrumming with anger, with a rage that wasn’t being helped by her hand on his arm. “He has my brother, Claire.”

“I know. We’re searching everywhere for him…and for Sam. Give us time.”

“Time? Did you see that video?”

His jaw clenched and unclenched and her face blanched. “Yes. I saw.”

“Sam doesn’t have anymore time, Claire.” His stomach turned and he thought he might be sick. “He’s had my brother for almost a week.”

“I know, Dean. We’re doing everything we can…the best we can.”

“Your best isn’t good enough.” Dean said…his father’s words, echoed through his voice.

 

_”I’m doing my best, sir.” Sam’s voice said from behind the shotgun that was nearly as tall as he was._

_“Your best isn’t good enough then.” John repositioned the gun, pushing it tight against his son’s shoulder and bracing the little body against his hip. “Try again. Aim at the middle target.”_

_He helped Sam point the gun toward the makeshift target at the end of the field. Sam’s hands were shaking as he pulled the trigger, and the shot went wide. John sighed and let go. “What if your brother’s life had depended on that shot, Sam? He’d be dead.”_

_Sam hung his head, the better to hide the tears. “Keep working at it.”_

 

“I’m afraid our time together has come to an end, Sam,” the voice said. Sam didn’t move, waiting. 

The hand stroked over his thigh, up to his hip. “I must confess I have enjoyed this. There was a time I despaired to ever see you again.”

The touch was gentle. Sam could almost lean into it, craving the connection, the feeling of another body…almost.

“I have to take a trip. Overseas. Business.”

There was a swell of panic. Sam did lean toward the hand on his shoulder. Maybe this was sick…wrong…but the fear of being alone was stronger. “Not to worry. I will find you again.” Sam chewed at his lip, knowing better than to make a sound. The hand left him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Then the hand was on his back, smoothing over the healing wounds of previous punishment, dipping down to caress ass cheeks with raised welts and burned skin.

“I want to leave you something to remember me by.”

Sam tensed. His body rocked under the tender touch. A finger moved inside, pushing, invading. “I want you to think of me every time you let **him** touch you here.”

It moved idly in and out. Sam breathed slowly, carefully.

“I won’t lie to you, Sam. This is going to hurt.”

The hand left him, and Sam held his breath in anticipation. 

Nothing could prepare him for what came though.

He screamed around as it bit into him, his flesh burning, his thigh on fire as the pressure mounted, the weight of the world pressing into his thigh as metal, heated white-hot ate away his flesh.

Then the heat was gone, and the hand was stroking him, caressing his face and back, his chest, his stomach. Sam felt his stomach lurch under the pain, leaning forward as much as the hands and his bonds would allow, retching, his stomach spilling forth what little it contained, bile burning its way up his throat.

The pedestal fell away and his shoulders jerked him down, turning him, away from the hands, away from everything but the pain. He felt blood in this throat as he yelled, as the hands chased after him, as the cock plunged into him and the voice whispered, “Something to remember me by.”

 

Dean waited longer than he thought he could, contained only by Claire’s voice, her reason as the task force searched…but as the words came over the radio, he peeled out of the driveway, away from the chrome and glass tower where Garrett held court. He flew through the shaded, quiet streets that pretended they knew nothing about the violence, ignoring her words.

His hand had the cell phone open as he hit the road, heading back toward the campus, toward the address the voice on the police radio had broadcast. His father picked up the phone and he stated the address, nothing else. He hung up before his father could even respond. 

“Dean.” Claire’s hand was gripping his hand, but he wouldn’t look at her. He could only drive, his brother’s name on his tongue.

 

_It had been a hard kill. Both of them were busted up, both of them were angry. There were no words, just angry silence that led to hard stares and thrown medical supplies. Sam had grabbed Dean…or maybe Dean grabbed Sam. Either way they had pulled and pushed and grabbed until Dean was against the wall, with Sam’s hand around his cock and Dean was yelling incoherently._

_He pushed and Sam ended up on the bed, sprawled out in nothing but his boxers and Dean was anything but gentle as he fell on top of him, taking his brother’s cock in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it._

_It was over quickly. Dean got up and went back to dressing his wounds. Sam got up and took a shower. The silence wasn’t angry anymore, and that was somehow more important than what they had just done._

 

He was alone. He knew it. He could feel it. The voice was gone. Replaced by music…too loud, too confining…The gag cut into the corners of his mouth, tied tight across his neck, the knot burning against a cut.

Dean. 

He rolled the name around in his head. Dean would come. 

Dean was gone. The voice told him so.

Somehow he knew. Dean. Dean would come.

Even if the voice in his head told him Dean was gone. Dean always came for him. Even though Sam knew he didn’t deserve it.

 

The building was abandoned when Garrett Industries had provided a new, state of the art science building that was actually on campus. The old labs and classrooms had been slated to be converted into offices, but construction hadn’t started.

Claire slapped her phone shut as Dean stopped the car. “They’re on the way. We should wait—“

“Fuck that.” Dean was out of the car and opening his trunk, pulling out his shotgun and loading it. 

“Dean—“

“Don’t. Don’t tell me to wait. If I had waited for backup last year Claire, it would have been your niece I was plugging with silver, alongside that good for nothing hick.”

She didn’t say anything more as he pushed past her. Dean circled the building, before settling on a glass door covered in paper from the inside. He cracked the door with the butt of the gun and glass shattered.

The building was dark, only the vague daylight that filtered through grimy windows gave him light enough to navigate over the debris left behind when it was vacated. He moved on instinct, chasing the feeling of Sam. 

There was a vague hum in the air, like the sound of lights…of electricity. He followed it down a long corridor of doors and stopped in front of an open one near the end. A desk light was lit, in an office with no windows, casting a pool of light around a desk. Dean moved slowly inside, his gun held ready. 

The desk was scattered with papers, cut up pictures. A notebook sat in its center, very similar to the notebook Dean had found with the DVD. His hand rested on the notebook. He knew what he would find. He had looked at the other one. It was filled with notes, pictures. Comments about the “subject’s” response to various punishments. “Where are you Sammy?”

“Dean.”

He turned, not sure if he’d actually heard anything. “Sammy?” He moved back into the hall. He could hear the sounds of other people working their way into the building.

“Dean!” His father’s voice.

“Over here!” He yelled it over his shoulder, moving cautiously toward a white door. He pushed it open, and lights came on. It was like a control room, with video equipment, a console that looked like a mixing board for a rock band. He reached out to touch the closest monitor and it came to life, flickering a minute until the image stopped him cold.

“Sam.”

Sam. Alone, bleeding. Gagged. Bound. Blindfolded.

Dean couldn’t breathe. His body seized up.

‘Dean.” It was like a whisper in his gut and he turned, reached for another control. The wall in front of him lowered to reveal glass…a room…Sam. 

Dean was out of the control room and pounding against the adjacent door. Finally he gave up and aimed the shotgun, blowing the knob and its lock and kicking in the door all at once. Sam didn’t move, didn’t even flinch

He took a step closer, lowering the shotgun. “Sam?”

His brother sat atop the pedestal, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms bound above his head. Dean stopped beside him, one hand ghosting over the marked skin of his back before he swallowed hard and touched Sam’s head. 

Warm. 

That was good. He found the headphones next, and pulled them slowly off, grimacing as the sound of Glenn Campbell screamed out of them. He dropped them, keeping one hand on Sam’s head. “Sam?” He said it softly, and Sam twitched.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” He worked at the knotted gag, but it was too tight. His knife came out of his pocket and he worked at cutting it. “Sammy? Can you hear me?”

Finally he got the gag cut loose and he circled around to the front of his brother. “Sammy?”

 

Dean. Sam could hear him…feel him. He was close, he was…A hand on his head. Not the hand,…not the one…smaller…familiar. 

“Sammy?” Not Sam. Sammy. Dean’s Sammy. Not…not Sam, not his…

He couldn't stop the tears. He felt the blindfold go and closed his eyes. He didn't want to see. Didn't want anyone to see. He shook his head no, as hands caressed his face, wiped away the tears.

“Dean!”

“Down here Dad!”

“No!” It isn’t really a word…half croaked from a raw throat, half mouthed in terror. “No…Dad…can’t…” Not that. He couldn’t take the disappointment. The failure. “Dean. Please.”

There was something draped over him, covering him and Dean’s face was close by his. “I’m going to get you down, Sammy. Just hold on.”

He panicked when the hands were gone, enough to open one eye. The room was bright and he squinted, blinked and ended up closing it again. “Dean?” He could barely hear himself.

“Right here, Sammy. Hold on.”

There was a popping sound and Sam’s hands fell from above him, crashing down into his knees and sending him hurtling off the pedestal…but the landing wasn’t as hard as he remembered and arms closed around him, pulling him tight against a warm body, holding him as he starts to shake.

 

“Dean.” John was in the doorway, but Dean held up his hand. 

“I’ve got him. Find Garrett.” John looked torn, but nodded. “Just save some for me.”

Dean didn't wait to see if John left, just gathered Sam closer to him. It was awkward trying to hold him in his lap, as tall as he was, but Sam clung to him, his body shaking as sobs racked through him and Dean didn't know where to put his hands where it wouldn't cause him more pain.

But none of that was as important as knowing that Sammy was in his arms…that he’d found him. He settled for stroking his brother’s hair, whispering to him and rocking them while the waited for the task force and the ambulance, and for someone to find that fucking son-of-a-bitch so that Dean could kill him.


	5. Chapter 5

The hospital seems cold to Dean. Cold. Sterile. Quiet. It makes him nervous. His stomach twists in knots as he paces outside the door to the room where Sam is…resting. Not sleeping. Dean doubts Sam is sleeping yet. 

The drugs already in his system kept him from truly sleeping…kept him in as sort of half-conscious daze…Hallucinogens and sedatives. There are IVs in his arms, feeding him fluids, drugs to counteract the cocktail Garrett had fed him. 

Sam’s eyes are half shut, never really opened. He’d stopped chanting Dean’s name though, and Dean could only see that as progress. He’d said so little…he seemed so frail and small and broken.

Dean paced harder, torn between staying with Sam and joining the hunt for Garrett. His father was out there, but…Dean closed his fist over his phone and turned on his heel, letting himself quietly back into the room.

Sam didn’t move as Dean pulled the chair closer, but his fingers curled around Dean’s when Dean took his hand. His wrists were bruised and scratched, his long fingers scraped. Dean knew the litany of injury; he’d spent an hour with the doctors going over them.

Both shoulders had been dislocated, and the right elbow had followed suit. There were second degree burns on his legs and buttocks. Various welts and open wounds from what they could only guess were whips. Both knees and shins were broken and scabbed from scrapping over concrete, more than once. There was evidence of rape, semen samples collected. Bruises and contusions covered almost every inch of him. There was still a chance he would need surgery to repair damage to his lungs from a broken rib and the rough handling that had included choking more than once.

Then there was the brand. Initials carved into Sam’s thigh with heated metal. KG in stylized letters like a fucking cattle brand.

Dean lowered his head to lay it on the bed next to his brother. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” he whispered. Sam’s fingers squeezed his momentarily and Dean sighed. 

The door opened and Dean looked up, standing quickly when he saw John. He let go of Sam’s hand and moved out into the hallway. “Did you find him?”

John shook his head. “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” 

John paced. “Gone. Private Jet. Gone.” Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen his father look as tired as he did at that moment. “How’s Sam?”

Dean blew out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and collapsed on to the bench. “He’s—God, Dad. It hurts to look at him.”

John swallowed. “I should go in—“

“No. Dad. Not yet.”

“What?” John just looked at his son and Dean shook his head.

“He isn’t ready.”

”I’m his father.”

Dean nodded. “He—he doesn’t want you to know. He’s ashamed, of what happened. Of what that sick fuck did to him. He doesn’t want you to know.”

John crumpled to the bench, doubling over and burying his face in his hands. “Does he hate me, Dean?”

“He’s afraid.”

“Nothing that bastard could do to him would make me ashamed of him.”

Dean didn’t answer, just stared at the floor. “You know?” he asked finally, after a long quiet had settled between them.

“Video.” John’s voice was dull, flat…”He…he left it, for us to find.” 

Dean nodded. “Was it like the other one?”

“Worse.”

His father wouldn’t meet his eyes and that told Dean more than he needed to know. 

 

Sounds. Not the voice. Not random music at deafening volumes. Not silence. Sounds.

Sam realized that first. 

There was a beeping, close, near his head. There were voices, further away. He moved and felt sheets against his skin. He moved and didn’t fall. His hands grabbed at the bed, feeling for its edges, mapping out the foundations of his new situation.

Light. There was light. He moved his head, opening his eyes with caution, his hand fluttering up to shield them from the bright white around him.

Hospital. It registered slowly. He was in a hospital.

Then he remembered. Dean. Dean had come. Dean had found him and held him, cradled him like a baby until the others came. Dean had held his hand, Dean had saved him. Again. 

He was not alone. His father was there, in the chair beside the bed, nearly asleep, his head propped up by his hand. His face was shadowy and Sam couldn’t tell if it was from the days of dark growth on his face or a haunted look in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but the words were gone. He finally managed to drag a raspy “Dad” from his torn throat and John’s head came up. 

His eyes flashed to the door, then back to Sam. “Don’t try to talk, Sam. Your throat is pretty banged up.”

Sam nodded and looked around the room, his eyes asking the question his throat couldn’t.

“Yeah, Dean went to get some food.”

Sam felt himself nod. 

John came to stand over him, taking Sam’s hand. There were tears in his eyes and somehow it made Sam feel vulnerable. “I was very scared.” John said in a fierce whisper. “I was afraid we wouldn’t…find you…in time.”

Sam tried to smile, but couldn’t. John’s big hands were too much like the hands…the ones that owned him…he pulled his hand away and closed his eyes. He couldn’t see the hurt in those dark eyes. He couldn’t tell him…

John turned away, and Sam grabbed his wrist. He didn’t open his eyes. “Sorry,” he croaked, knowing his father wouldn’t understand, but not wanting anything more to get in the way of saying it. _I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted. I’m sorry I’m not more like Dean. I’m sorry I failed you. Again._

But John doesn’t get to hear that and as he leaves the room, Sam doesn’t get to hear the tears that John saves for the hallway.

 

It’s four days before solid food, when Sam is hydrated and his throat is healing, and even then it’s only as solid as Jello and broth and ice cream.

Dean watched from across the room as Sam rolled his eyes in ecstasy as the ice cream melted in his mouth. “You look like—“ But he didn’t get to finish as the spoon tumbled out of Sam’s hand.

Sam made a face and Dean was half way to the bed when Sam picked the spoon back up. “I can feed myself, Dean.” It was said softly, but Dean felt every word. Saw the look in Sam’s eye.

“I know. I know. I just—“

Sam shook his head. “Forget it.” He struggled for another two bites, then put the spoon down in the bowl. “You want the rest?”

“You need to eat, Sam.”

“Sammy.”

“What?”

Sam cleared his throat and looked away. “Just…Sammy…for a little while. Okay?”

Dean shrugged, trying to pass it off as casual…normal. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”

He scooped out a huge spoonful of the plain vanilla ice cream and stuffed it into his mouth. “You still need to eat,” he said around the melting mouthful, emphasizing his words with the spoon, flicking ice cream over Sam’s face.

“I’m full. Really.” His voice still sounded strange to him, raspy, foreign. It didn’t hurt as much to talk though. “So…how long?”

“For what?” Dean snagged the bowl of ice cream and plopped into the chair.

“How long until you can get me out of here?”

Dean shook his head. “You can’t even walk Sammy!”

“I bet I could. They just won’t let me out of bed.”

“Dude, no. Just no. You’re staying there until they tell me you can go.”

Sam sighed and gingerly leaned back against his pillows. His back wasn’t as raw as it had been only days before and he could actually lay on it for a few minutes before he had to shift to his side. “Where’s Dad?”

“Remember that demon, the one he came here looking for?” Sam nodded. “He went off to get it. He couldn’t…” Dean looked up at his brother, trying to make the message clear in his eyes so he wouldn’t have to say it.

“He couldn’t stand to be here…with me.” Sam said softly, shifting now, rolling onto his side his back to Dean.

“No. No. Sammy.” Dean moved around the bed, putting the ice cream down on the tray. “You…should have seen him, Sammy. He’s hurting and he doesn’t know how to make it better. He doesn’t know how to make you better. So he’s doing what he does know.”

Sam blinked at the tears and shook his head. “I don’t need him, Dean. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Dean looked down at Sam, his Sammy. “I’m right here, Sammy. Always.”

They’ve never kissed, for all the nights they’ve touched and groped, they’ve never kissed, and Dean isn’t sure why, but he can’t stop himself from brushing his lips across Sam’s. His eyes close as Sam’s lips part, breathing hot air into his mouth and he presses in for more, his tongue on Sam’s lip, dipping into his mouth. And he tastes like the grainy vanilla ice cream and lime Jello and Sam…exactly what he knew Sam would taste like.

He came away with a goof smile, and brushed the hair out of Sam’s eyes. “Get some rest, doofus. I’m gonna go check in with Dad.”

 

The Impala was a welcome sight as Dean took over pushing Sam’s wheelchair from the admissions nurse…like home. Sam smiled as Dean stopped them beside it and locked the wheels. “Your chariot.” He smiled that goofy grin that made Sam roll his eyes.

It took a minute for him to get to his feet, pushing on the arms of the chair and shuffling his feet until he felt they would hold. As he was settling into the passenger seat of the car, the admissions nurse reappeared beside them.

“I almost forgot, Mr. Winchester, your paper work.” She handed him a stack of after care notes and prescriptions and an envelope of thick, elegant stock. 

“What’s this?” He held it up and she shrugged. 

“It was on top of your paperwork. It must have come for you.”

Sam stiffened, and Dean started looking around them. Sam started to open it, stopped, then shook his head and opened it.

_My dearest Sam,_

_I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye one last time. You need not look for me. I will find you again one day. I always know how to find what is mine._

_With love,  
KG_

Sam shook as Dean took the letter, scanned it and bolted back into the hospital. He flew through the lobby and up the admissions desk, trying to get around their security. He froze when he saw him, through the glass, behind the security door.

Garrett smiled and tipped his head in Dean’s direction, then casually turned and walked away. Dean had his phone out as he watched. “He’s here. At the fucking hospital.”

He beckoned the security guard over and told him he needed to lock down the hospital, get the cops in there to sweep the place and ran back to Sam. His face was drawn an white behind the healing bruises and dark circles from lack of sleep.

Dean shook his head and squared his jaw. “Get your feet in, Sammy. We’re leaving.”

“What about—“

“No. I’m not leaving you out here alone and vulnerable while I hunt for him. Dad’s on his way. The police are coming. Don’t you worry about Garrett. We’ll find him.” He shut the door and circled around to the driver’s side. Police cars were already pulling into the drive as he pulled out. 

“Dean.”

“Sammy.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean looked at him. “For what?”

Sam shook his head and looked away. “I—I just am. For everything.”

Dean’s hand was on his knee, just touching…letting him know he was there. Sam shook off the feeling of another hand, on his knee. “I—called for you.” Sam said, when they were blocks away from the hospital. “When he…while…” He swallowed.

Dean’s hand tightened on his knee, then he slid it up over Sam’s shoulders to pull him close. “I felt you, you know.” Dean said. “That’s how I found you.”

“I thought I was the one with the visions.”

“Maybe…but I’m the one who found you.”

“You always do.”

They were quiet then, Sam’s head on Dean’s shoulder until they pulled into the motel. “I’ll get you settled, then go get your prescriptions filled.”

“Where are we going to get the money for that?”

Dean smiled crookedly as he helped Sam out of the car. “After everything he’s done to you, I figured Mr. Garrett could do with a few less dollars on his credit accounts.”

Sam couldn’t fault him, and only let him help him into the room and into bed. “I’m really getting tired of beds,” he joked.

“You going to be okay alone?”

Sam’s face paled but he nodded. “Turn on the TV. I’ll be fine.”

The noise of the TV drowned the silence and Sam did his best to be comfortable in the room, on the bed. He slid his hand down his legs, coming to a stop just over the mark. He couldn’t feel it, not through the sweat pants and bandages, but he knew it was there. It would always be there. Like the voice in his head. Like the feeling of that hand on him, inside him. He knew it would never go away. Somehow he knew it wasn’t over. Maybe it never would be.

 

John hesitated outside the room. He didn’t know how to tell Sam that the bastard had gotten away. He didn’t know how to tell him everything else he needed to tell him either.

He unlocked the door and slipped inside. Sam appeared to be asleep, the TV on too loud, his face slack and his breathing shallow. Sleep seemed like a good idea. John sank to a seat and watched Sam. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to see the look in Sam’s eyes for him that he saw when he looked at Dean. Like he needed him there. Like he wanted him there.

After a long moment, Sam stirred. “Dad?”

“Hey, Sam. You okay?”

Sam nodded, rubbing his eyes with one hand. John’s eyes caught on the bruises still circling his wrist. “What time is it?”

John shook his head. “After 6. You hungry?”

Sam made a face he couldn’t interpret. “No. Where’s Dean?”

“He’s…”

“Hunting.” Sam finished for him.

John nodded and got up to come closer. “For Garrett.” Sam said and John nodded. 

Sam shook his head. “He won’t find him. He’s gone.”

John stood there staring at him. Finally Sam looked up, a half smile belaying the anguish in his eyes. “It’s okay, Dad. He…I’m okay.”

“I—what I said—before—“

Sam shook his head, shifted, trying to find a more comfortable way to lay on the lumpy mattress. “No. You were right. I’m not…I never will be Dean.”

“I never said that.” John’s voice dripped with hurt.

“No, but I felt it. I’m sorry I couldn’t…I can’t.” 

John fell to one knee beside the bed and took Sam’s hand, squeezing it to make sure he had Sam’s attention. “Never apologize for that Sam. Never. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

Sam smiled again, this time it almost made it to his eyes. “So we’re a sorry bunch all together then.” 

John’s head dipped and rested on the mattress. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

 

Three states and two months later, Sam woke from a nightmare, shaking and calling for Dean, who was there, beside him instantly. This was what had become normal, the hand holding, the whispered reassurances. The hunts had been few and far between. And Dean hadn't touched him…not the way he used to and Sam wasn't sure of himself.

He reached out for Dean, caressing his face with his eyes closed. “I just want…” But he wasn't sure what he just wanted. Normal…but he had no idea anymore what normal was. This. This thing, this wrong, twisted thing. “You came for me,” he whispered into Dean’s mouth, kissing him with something like passion, something alive. He needed alive. He needed to feel something outside the fear.

“Sammy.” Dean whispered and Sam shuddered. His hands flutter over Sam’s body, down to the growing hardness.

“No…I want…” Sam pushed him back, kissing his chest, down to his stomach. His hands pushed away the boxers that covered Dean’s own cock, nearly hard, and Sam’s breath brings it straight up.

“Sammy…” They haven’t ever done this. It’s like the kissing. But it’s intimate, and has no connotations Sam can’t handle right now. It’s Dean, his breathing hissing as Sam took him in his mouth. It’s Dean, mewling in pleasure as Sam scraped his teeth over sensitive skin. It’s Dean bucking up into him as his orgasm builds.

It’s something he can have that isn’t all fucked up by a psychotic serial killer. It’s fucked up in its own special way and Sam feels a little like he’s reclaimed a piece of his life. “Mine,” he whispered as he crawled his way up to his brother’s face to kiss him.

Dean stroked his face, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. “Yes, Sammy. Always.”

Sam drifted back to sleep in Dean’s arms. He wasn't the good son. He wasn't normal. He was Sam Winchester, and this…this was his.


End file.
